by Liana Key
I trudged back to my room, annoyed that I'd burdened Magdala with that news, when it wasn't really my news to tell. I stopped at the kitchen for a glass of water. I'd left my phone in my room. There were three missed calls from Paola. I climbed into bed, my finger hovered, hesitated before pressing the dial button.
She picked up after two rings. "Cassian?"
"Hey," I said. Then silence.
"Are you okay?" she asked, gently.
"Yes." But my hands started to tremble inexplicably.
"I can't stop thinking about it, about us." Her voice sounded shaky, unsure.
"Me neither."
"What are we going to do?" There was a hint of fear in her voice.
"I don't know." Because I didn't. I had no idea where we went to from here.
"I want you again," she said, her voice husky.
"I want you now," I said, though I knew it wasn't going to happen.
She hesitated before speaking next. "I have tomorrow off," she said. "Can you come? After your training?"
"Yes," I said, and she gave me her address, and I smiled knowing in less than twenty four hours we'd be together again.
PAOLA
Did I seem desperate, all these phone calls to him? Why didn't he pick up at ten o'clock at night? I lay in my own bed inventing stories of where he was without his phone, the shower, swimming, night tennis even. I just needed to make sure he was all right.
His embrace had been unexpected, the tenderness in which he held me, the brush of his lips on my forehead. Surprisingly these were the thoughts that remained in my mind, not the hard and fast uncontrollable lust, but the simple act of his arms around my body. Unwittingly he had me craving more of that, which is why I needed to hear his voice.
I busied myself in the ordinary, a You Tube Pilates class, housework, grocery shopping, phone call to my mother, painting my toe nails, making lasagne and baking cookies. Willing the time to race ahead, until I saw him again. He phoned me to say he was leaving training, I told him where he could park. I touched up my perfume, I rechecked the bed. I'd been wearing denim shorts all day, but I'd changed into a blue floral skirt, which floated around my knees and a white camisole top. I wanted him to see me as sophisticated, not a 28 year old trying to be a teenager, though it occurred to me that he had no idea how old I was.
The knock on the door raised my heart rate instantly, ridiculous, I thought. I ushered him in, wondering if any neighbors had seen him. Though what did I care, I was hardly friends with any of these people. He looked around my apartment, like I guess anybody would on visiting a new place. There was nothing too revealing, the obligatory family and holiday photos framed in a mismatch of styles, several prints on the walls, one of them Van Gogh's sunflowers, comfortable cream sofa and one armchair, hand me downs from my parents, covered in lime green and navy cushions, a wooden coffee table with a vase of chrysanthemums and the latest fashion magazines on it. Really, if anything, you would notice that I had no particular style, had no flair for interior design. Perhaps you would deduce that I liked comfort and flowers, nothing more.
My style emitted from the way I dressed, the clothes, the shoes, the accessories I wore. I liked to splurge occasionally on high fashion, a Chanel handbag, a Gucci belt, Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses, outrageously expensive Jimmy Choo shoes (well my mother had contributed half for a birthday gift last year). I liked designer make up, designer perfume, weekly manicures, those were my only vices. Until I met him.
I offered him a drink, he declined. He stepped towards me and before I could say, "A snack?" he'd kissed me. And from that moment, till the moment he left an hour and a half later, our bodies never separated. We fell onto the sofa, where only last week my mother had sat reading her People magazine and drinking coffee, the cushions scattering every which way, and after I had placed them with such precision too! Then we moved to my bedroom, the cover had already been half pulled back in anticipation, I doubt he noticed. He was eager to please me, begging me to teach him, but his spontaneity and instinct were all I desired. I let him go down on me, to taste me, his tongue with its intriguing piercing rolling against my clit, tantalizing it no end, till I panted and squirmed and finally gave in to the waves of ecstasy, again calling his name as if it was sacred. He seemed pleased that he was pleasing me.
I wanted to teach him a lesson or two as well, it had to be give and take. I knelt over him, my greedy eyes taking in all of his youthfulness, the smooth, tanned skin, the ripped muscles, especially of his biceps and legs which had spent hour upon hour on a tennis court. I'd always thought tennis players have the best legs, not that I was a particular fan of the sport, but he seemed to confirm it true.
My tongue snaked its way down his body, wanting to claim every inch of it as my own. I got a certain kick out of knowing I was his first, and I selfishly wanted to keep him to myself, almost as if he was a possession, something to own. Where that thinking had come from I had no idea. I sighed as I got to his torso, the anticipation of taking him in my mouth left me slightly breathless. My tongue circled, it flicked, it sucked, my wild abandon as great as his. I felt powerful knowing my lips, my mouth were the first to taste his deliciousness, and as he lost all control and came in my mouth I exalted to a higher heaven, satisfied beyond my dreams.
And then I got to lay in his arms, his body moulded to mine, his face so close that I could see the varying shades of green and grey flecks that gave his eyes such depth. I traced my fingers over the angles of his face, the smooth forehead, the natural arch of his eyebrows, the to-die-for cheekbones, the soft lobes of his ears, the fullness of his lips. I reached for his hair, dragging my fingers through the multi-tones of colors, a dark blonde, tinged with pale gold, highlights from the sun. His beauty was overwhelming, but somehow it was his inner beauty that shone the brightest. He had a strength of character, a natural poise, a likability that seemed to set him apart. Evidence by the amount he was making in tips. People seemed to gravitate towards him, he drew them in. Which is why it seemed to be impossible that I was his first.
"What are you thinking?" I asked as he slowly wound his fingers around strands of my hair. Such a simple act, but it felt so intimate, that even the roof of my mouth was tingling, a bizarre, a sensuous feeling.
"How lucky I am," he said.
I smiled, both inwardly and outwardly. "I think I'm the lucky one," I said, my head resting snugly on his chest, my legs entwined around his. "I can't believe that you haven't had girls, women fighting over you," I said lightly.
His reply shocked me. "I've never been like that," he said, "it's not me."
It seemed like a mature thing to say, like he was old beyond his years. It intrigued me.
"What is 'you'?" I asked gently.
"I don't know," he said. "I like to do things right, I like to do the best I can. I like to look out for my family." He shrugged, "Just simple stuff really."
"That's not simple stuff," I said, "that's admirable stuff." My heart swelled, that such a young boy could be so smart, sensible. I knew I had been right about his character, but I now felt the slight tinge of regret, that I had corrupted this innocent. I had taken what wasn't mine, opened him up, exposed him. I started to morally judge myself and I didn't like what I saw. A woman intent on satisfying her own selfish needs, not considering any implications.
"It's like I've been waiting for you," he said and he lightly kissed the top of my head. "Like you and me were meant to meet."
My rotten thoughts vanished in an instant. I wasn't bad, I wasn't morally depraved. I didn't know if I thought as deeply as he did, didn't know if I really believed in destiny, fate, soul mates, but I liked the sound of it. Justification for my actions, my boldness.
"I'm glad you waited," I whispered.
His phone started vibrating on the nightstand. He leaned over, looked to see who it was, picked it up, pushing me to the side, his face apologetic.
"Yeah? Cash." A pause. "Yes. Yes. Okay. Bye."
"Everything all right?"
I asked, pulling the sheet up to cover my breasts.
"I've got to go," he said, swinging his legs off the bed, looking around for his clothes.
"Is everything all right?" I asked again, a bit concerned.
He seemed to rub at his temples, like he had a headache. "Yes," he said, pulling on his shorts. "I don't want to leave you," he said. "I'm sorry."
I got out of bed, my nakedness in all its glory, but he hardly noticed. Something was troubling him, of that I was sure.
"Is there anything I can do?" I asked, because he was moving quickly now, found his shirt in the lounge, pulled it over his head.
"Call me later," he said and he kissed my cheek and was gone.
CASSIAN
I half ran down the two flights of Paola's apartment building, and then jogged to the car. Crazy that you can be in bliss one minute, then riding a wave of panic the next. Dad's phone call was upsetting, and now I was upset because I wasn't there with her, and I needed to get there quickly. Magdala, Dad said, had gone out in her car, confident because she'd just had a full day at school, but now she was losing it in the mall carpark because she'd seen a white van, or the white van, or something. He'd asked if I was closer, and being at Paola's had meant that I was, and could I go and get her.
I called her on my phone as I was driving, something I really don't like doing, but I didn't have time to set up the hands-free.
"Magdala, are you okay?" I asked when she picked up.
"Not really." There was distress in her voice. I asked her to tell me where I'd find her, what entrance I should come in at. It was twelve minutes before I got to her, my heart beating wildly the whole way. I couldn't get a close park, so ran to find her. She almost jumped out of her skin when I tapped on the window. I didn't realize, till that moment, how much fear she still lived with.
She unlocked the door and got out, I took her in my arms and she clung to me. She wasn't crying, but she was all worked up.
"I just freaked out when I saw it," she explained, "but I think it was just a cleaning van.
So I didn't want to get out, and I didn't want to drive home."
"What do you want to get?" I asked.
"I wanted to get some hair ties and some stuff for my face."
"Well let's go then," I said.
"No, I don't really need it," she said.
"We're here," I insisted, "we may as well." She grabbed her purse from the car, and locked it. In the meantime I rang Dad, telling him she was all right and we were going to grab a few things. He sounded relieved. We walked into the mall, my arm draped around her shoulder.
"You smell of perfume," she said. I heard her, but chose to ignore her. She persisted, "Whose is it? Have you been with someone?"
I tried to laugh it off. "I've been at training, but Jess was spraying some stuff around." Jess is one of the players in my training squad. I thought it sounded quite plausible.
"It's nice," she said, "what is it?"
"Like I'd know," I laughed. Dior's J'adore.
We walked around arms hooked, and she started to relax. I let her take her time choosing her things. It had been a long time since she'd been to the mall and it seemed she was enjoying herself.
"Isn't Jakey supposed to do this stuff with you?" I asked, "he's your BFF."
She laughed, "You're funny Cash. Are you getting bored?"
"You've looked at twenty one different face cleansers," I said.
She squeezed my arm, "I don't want to get the wrong one for my skin, do I?" she laughed.
I couldn't tell you how much I loved my sister. Loved to see her smile and laugh. But that glimpse of the fear that still haunted her was vivid in my brain, it niggled away at me, and I felt guilt that while I'd been with Paola, Magdala had been stressing, reliving a nightmare, and maybe on a daily basis.
I followed her car home, and Dad and Antonia were at the door when we arrived. Antonia reheated our dinner and I realized I was starving. It was past nine already. Dad stopped me as I was going to my room.
"How was she?" he asked. My phone started ringing. I glanced down, it was Paola calling. I didn't want to, but I pressed end.
"Scared shitless," I said. "Dad?"
"I don't think she should be going out on her own," he said, "not yet anyway." And as an aside, "Where were you?"
"Just hanging around after training." Lies seemed to come easily. "Dad? I don't think she tells us how bad it is for her. She lives in fear. Like she was terrified."
"Shit," he sighed, frustrated. "I just wish I could fix it all. For her." My sentiments exactly, but it was like we were all just bystanders, useless idiot bystanders who could do nothing to take away the fear and pain.
I showered and called Paola back after I'd said goodnight to Magdala, and returned to the solitude of my room.
She answered immediately, and I imagined her lying in her bed, the bed we'd shared just a few hours earlier. "I'm sorry I had to run out," I said.
"Don't apologize," she said, " but I was worried." And she sounded it.
"Just a family thing," I said, trying to sound casual.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked and it sounded like genuine concern.
"Not tonight," I said. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, my sweet boy," she said, and perhaps I should have been offended by the use of the word boy, but I wasn't, to my surprise I found I liked it.
It seems that there can be an event or an incident that changes your life, or if not maybe your whole life, it can send it spiraling in another direction or it sets you up to behave differently. I think the rape was sending Magdala's life in a direction she would not really have taken. As for me, I remember clearly one incident that perhaps shaped me to become the person I am.
Can you remember what happened when you were five years old? For me that's twelve years ago, and I recall it like yesterday. Magdala can't remember much of that part of our childhood, she can only remember riding horses at the ranch and Disneyland for her seventh birthday.
Magdala's mother was coming to get her that morning, this we knew. Dad had got her backpack out of the closet and put a few clothes in it. He told Magdala to get her toothbrush and her pajamas. She started to cry. Dad told her to have some breakfast, he fixed us both a bowl of cereal. We lived in an apartment then, just the three of us. We were both sitting at the table, eating our cornflakes, Magdala crying as she ate. Several times Dad told her to shut up, but she just sobbed harder, she was four years old for gods sake. Dad came over and smacked her on the butt, yelled at her to shut up. She tried so hard to stop, but it made me start to cry. Dad yelled at me to shut up, I sniffed, I tried but I couldn't. He came over to me, slapped my face so hard and fast that I fell off the chair and hit the floor. Dad picked me up, carried me to the room Magdala and I shared and threw me on my bed.
"Stay in there till I come and get you, don't you fucking come out, and clean up the fucking mess as well," he yelled and he slammed the door. Dad had never ever laid a hand on either of us before.
I heard Magdala crying louder than ever, but then it stopped and the door shut. I stayed in that room all day. Dad never came in. I made Magdala's bed, I folded all the clothes in each drawer, never knowing if Dad would be coming in to get me. I tidied all our toys, lining things up, stacking blocks and Lego. I needed to pee. I went to the door, trying to hear where he was, but all I could hear was the sound of the tv. I didn't know what to do. I looked around the room, found a pencil tin, a cylinder and took our colored pencils out of it and I peed in that and then put it under the bed. I was hungry, but there was no food in our room. I went to the door again, trying to listen. Still just the tv. Dad never came, I was too scared to open the door. I went to sleep.
Dad didn't come back till the next morning. I had been in that room for almost twenty four hours. I'd had to pee twice into that pencil tin. I was starving. I was sitting on the bed, playing with my Bumblebee transformer toy when Dad came in. He looked different, his eyes were different. He scooped me
up and held me, but I didn't hold him back. It was like holding a plank of wood.
"Cash," he said. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He kept saying it over and over. He looked at my face, kissed it. I hadn't known but there was a cut on the corner of my eye and it had swollen a bit, probably from when I hit the floor. He took me to the bathroom, washed me and gave me breakfast. "Little buddy, you know I love you, Daddy's sorry, so sorry." He kept repeating it. I just wanted Magdala, but she wasn't back. He sat me on the couch, in front of the tv. I never said anything. When I got the chance I went and poured that pee down the toilet. I washed the tin, but then I just threw it away. I couldn't put our pencils back into a pissy tin.
It was after that that I started going with Magdala to her mother's place. I learnt that I had to stay in control, that I had to keep my emotions in check. I never wanted to be a prisoner again. I learnt that I had to protect Magdala. I never cried again after that. Never. Until the night Magdala got raped.
And I'd never lost control - until I met Paola.
Aunt Kate had come round a few days later. She asked me what had happened to my eye. I told her, it didn't occur to me to lie to her. She went ballistic at Dad. They argued, shouted, yelled. She grabbed a bunch of Magdala’s and my clothes, threw them in our backpacks and took us with her.
Aunt Kate made Raff move into Jakey's room, and Magdala and I stayed in Raff's room. Grandad Chris came round. He took us to the ranch for the weekend. Dad came round to Kate's, shouting at Kate that we needed to be at home. She wouldn't let us go. Kate made Dad go away. We stayed between Kate's and Grandad's for the next month or so and then we went home with Dad. Dad said he loved us more than anything and that he would never let us go again. He never hit us again, never even yelled at us again. He hugged us all the time, kept telling us how much he loved us, said he had learnt his lesson. But I made sure I kept our room perfectly clean and tidy all the time, I constantly picked up after Magdala who didn't seem to care if her clothes were creased or if dishes were stacking up. Magdala asked him if she could have a horse at home and Dad laughed and tickled us both so much that Magdala had tears, but not me. I had no tears, not of joy, or sadness.
